Guinevere's Grail | ✓ [BOOK 2]

~ 20 ~

UNLIKE ALL THE REST, Morgana awoke in a warm bed, surrounded by the scent of fresh rain and earth. It took him a moment to realize where he was, but as the memory of his companions falling at Chalice's hands, who saved him for last, he could put together where he was. That was when he noticed the chains holding his wrists to the bedframe, but it didn't burn like iron. It was something else, something strong enough to keep him there, but it wasn't meant to hurt.

"About time," said a voice that sent shivers down his spine. It was the Summer Princess, lounging over a chaise at the corner of the room in a dress far too extravagant for a woman holding prisoners. Her eyes traveled over him, and he didn't know what she was looking at. That is, not until he felt the cool air against his chest, and he shot up in the bed, rattling his chains.

"Where am I?" he growled, though he had a feeling. "And where are my clothes?"

The Princess laughed, and while it sounded like church bells, it felt like a war cry. "You smelled like fish, and since I wasn't allowed to throw you in the dungeons, you had to get washed up."

His stomach churned, and if his face wasn't already as pale as a face could be, he would've gotten paler. "You--"

She could see the horror written across his features and giggled again. "Don't worry, I tried not to enjoy it. You're a beautiful creature, though, Morgana. It was difficult." Before he could try to rip her throat out again, she stood up and continued on. "I've also been tasked to act as your wardrobe maid, do you have any preferences?"

"I would prefer not to be locked up. And I want my friends."

"I know you like black," she said, ignoring his remarks. "I'll only add a little color, but I doubt Her Majesty would appreciate being presented with a man dressed as an assassin."

"Well technically, I am one," Morgana murmured, but she didn't hear him, as expected.

She disappeared into a large closet and returned with a pile of clothes that were far too fancy for his tastes, and he'd be a bit more worried about them if he wasn't already concerned about everything else going on around him.

"Red or blue accents? Personally I think blue suits your complexion better, but you act like a red kind of guy. What do you think?"

Morgana had no patience for dress-up. "Where are my friends?"

"I'll give you blue. How do you want your hair?"

"Where's Giselle?"

"Answer my question."

"Answer mine." He clamped his jaw and glared up at her. She was avoiding the issue at hand, and he had a sense that it was because she wasn't allowed to say anything. She was just as much of a puppet as Chalice, even if she had too much pride to admit it. There was something about her that reminded him of Kit, not only the golden complexion, but her stubbornness and pride as well. It was hard not to pity her when she had eyes like that.

The princess swallowed. "I can't. Ask the Queen when she sees you."

"Namyra."

She met his gaze with a fire he knew too well. "Don't."

A long time ago, this feeling in his chest would've made sense. He forgot how to hate her for a moment, and that hatred turned into a passion reignited by that scared look in her eye. Morgana hated it, but his protective streak made him a sucker.

His cold hand slid over her fingers. "I need you to tell me. And I need to know why the hell you're working for her. This isn't you."

Namyra yanked her hand away. "This isn't the me that you know," she told him. "But it's me. I know what it takes to survive, you of all people should know how that is. Everyone has to make sacrifices to keep going."